My aunt grew up in Maine close to the tracks. Her bed shook gently. She fell asleep watching branches shadowed on the wall reach for the ceiling, bend, recede.
The summer she stayed with us in Palo Alto, a small earthquake hit and power flickered briefly, off then on. She said the train was running late.
I like to imagine her death came that way: a change in light she could take for something else.
Richard Jordan is a PhD mathematician who works as a researcher at MIT Lincoln Laboratory. His poetry has appeared most recently in The Atlanta Review, Tar River Poetry, Redivider, Two Review, and on the Verse Daily website.